


The Lute

by Laine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 20:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laine/pseuds/Laine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their mother's death, Jaime and Cersei watch as their relatives purge the castle of her belongings.  But Jaime sees something that he wishes to keep.  </p><p>Originally written for a <a href="http://throneland.livejournal.com">Throneland</a> challenge on LiveJournal.   The theme was "side-stories, prequels and sequels".</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lute

After the death of Joanna Lannister, a deluge of relatives descended upon Casterly Rock; aunts and uncles and cousins, just a sea of gold and green and crimson. Auntie Genna and Auntie Dorna set to work almost immediately, packing Lady Joanna’s belongings into trunks, reassigning her personal maidservants to other tasks, and generally wiping the castle clear of any reminders, any remembrances.

Lord Tywin stood stock-still in his wife’s chamber, watching his sister and goodsister with glassy eyes. Uncle Kevan tried to coax him into a chair, but the Lord of the Rock would not budge- he just planted himself at the side of the room, silent and stationary. 

Jaime and Cersei observed the commotion from an alcove in the corridor. After a few moments, Cersei became restless, tapping her foot on the parapets and nudging her brother’s arm. “This is boring. Let’s go to the east wing; I want to see if the little monster has woken up yet. Maybe he grew scales overnight...or a tail. One of the chamber maids thinks she saw a tail.”

“In a moment,” Jaime replied. He craned his neck to peer into the antechamber outside his mother’s bedroom, and his eyes lit upon something- gleaming wood, golden accents...

Cersei gave an impatient huff and bounced up and down on her heels. He gave her a smile and a little push. “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

She hovered in the archway for a moment longer before rolling her eyes and breezing down the hall, golden curls streaming out behind her.

Once his sister disappeared around the corner, Jaime crept out from the alcove and raised himself up on tiptoe, sneaking as quietly as possible into the antechamber. A peek through the bedroom door showed Auntie Genna snapping commands at Auntie Dorna while Uncle Kevan stood next to Father, tossing a worried glance at his brother from time to time. Reasonably convinced that none of the adults would notice his movements, Jaime approached a low table and closed his hands around his quarry: his mother’s beautiful lute, all shining cherry wood inlaid with gold. 

Father had not liked the idea of Jaime learning to play the lute; “It’s womanish,” he’d claimed, shaking his head even as Lady Joanna frowned. “Teach Cersei, if you’d like.”

“Cersei has neither the talent nor the interest,” his mother had snapped back, and Jaime could see that she’d startled Lord Tywin with her forthrightness. The Lord of Casterly Rock let the issue lie after that, and although he wouldn’t agree to formal music lessons for his son, Lady Joanna took it upon herself to teach him.

He would sit in her lap, the lute draped across his knees, and she would take his little hands in hers, guiding his fingers over the strings. He had a natural knack for it; before long, he could pluck out simple tunes all on his own, and he’d look up at his mother to see her green eyes shining with pride. “Beautiful, sweetling. Beautiful,” she’d say. 

The lessons would always take place while Cersei was otherwise occupied, but Jaime would tell her about them later in the evening. He’d been surprised at the hurt on her face, and then taken aback by the derision, the cold mockery. “So you think to be a minstrel, then? Plucking out notes on your silly harp while the real boys fight in the jousts?”

(He’d silenced her by resuming the game they’d begun that morning, trying to mimic the movements of the mating dogs in the stables.)

But he and his mother continued. She taught him to sing, and his high child’s voice would meld with her low, sweet one, their joined fingers moving over the strings. 

And when they were through, Joanna would gather her son into her arms and hold him tight, kissing his golden head and whispering, “My sweet little duckling.”

(Lord Tywin hated that nickname- “The children are lions, not weak little birds.” But Lady Joanna had only laughed, telling him that when she held her baby twins in her arms, both so small and downy-headed, they’d reminded her of nothing so much as fluffy little ducklings.)

Jaime felt a prick of tears in his eyes at the memory, but he held them down; Cersei hadn’t cried yet, and he wouldn’t be the first, he just wouldn’t. Wrapping his small arms around the instrument, he crept back into the corridor and tried to think of a place where he could hide it before going to meet Cersei-

His sleeve brushed against two of the strings, and the silvery sound reverberated in his ears.

The little boy stopped, bit down on his lip, but it was no use. A single tear trickled over his cheek and landed on the lute, shimmering bright against the golden strings.


End file.
